by Frewin Jones
“Some of us do,” Branwen said. “And some of us get sent south to be married.”
Gavan frowned at her but said nothing.
“My mother is a warrior,” Branwen said.
“Yes, my lady, she is. Renowned through the five kingdoms.”
“I’ve never seen her fight—not for real,” Branwen said. “People say she was fearsome in battle.” She wrinkled her forehead. “It’s hard to imagine.”
“Believe it, my lady,” Gavan said, a faint smile touching his lips. “I knew your mother many, many years ago—long before she was wed to your father.” The deep-set eyes burned into her face. “You are the image of her,” he murmured. “You have her spirit and her fire; I can see that.”
Branwen returned his gaze. “No, sir, in that you’re mistaken,” she replied sadly. “I am no warrior.” She turned and walked away from him.
The conversation had turned sour for her; she had hoped it would lift her spirits, but it had served only to remind her of the things she had left behind, the things she had lost forever. The things she would never be.
Branwen ap Griffith—proud daughter of a warrior-mother!
No. Branwen the exile. Branwen the forgotten, wife to Hywel ap Murig.
21
ROMNEY WAS IN the bedchamber, sitting on a chest while Aelf dressed her hair. There was no sign of Meredith.
“Don’t be so rough!” Romney scolded. “You’ll pull my hair out by the roots.” Her complaints stopped when she saw Branwen. “Why are you still here?” she demanded. “No one wants you here.”
“I’ll be gone soon, the saints willing,” Branwen said without rancor.
“Not soon enough,” spat Romney. “All your talk about hunting and traipsing through the woods, why don’t you go and live in the forest like the savage you are?”
Branwen gazed at her. If only she could do just that. Suddenly the urge burst up in her to be away from the fortress and among trees again. She grinned at Romney. “That’s an excellent idea,” she said. She tore off her gown and threw open her traveling chest. She cast the upper clothes across the floor, emptying the chest until she came to her marten-skin jerkin and her leggings and forest boots. She pulled them on, wrapping a simple band around her waist and fitting her slingshot and pouch of stones onto it.
Romney was staring at her. “What are you doing? Have you lost your wits?”
“Not at all. I’m taking your advice, Romney.”
Branwen drew Geraint’s knife out of the chest. She walked across to Romney and dropped to one knee in front of the alarmed girl. She held up the knife in front of Romney’s face. “Shall I bring you back something tasty?” she offered.
Romney’s eyes bulged.
Branwen laughed and got up. “Good-bye, Romney,” she said. “Every time I gut a hare, I’ll be thinking of you.”
She strode from the room. As she walked through the fortress, she was aware of people staring at her in her unladylike clothes, but she ignored them. There were guards at the gate, but they didn’t try to stop her as she made her way into the deep slit that cleft the ramparts. For a few moments she was enveloped in cool darkness, then she came out into the sunlight again.
She began to run down the roadway that led from the fortress. Ahead of her, the road rose toward the ridge crowned with iron braziers; but to her right it was hemmed with trees. She plunged into the welcoming arms of the forest.
“Geraint! Catch me if you can! Come hunting with me!”
She ran until a stabbing pain in her side brought her to a panting halt. She doubled over, leaning against a sturdy oak, sucking in breath. She put her back to the oak and slid down to sit on the ground with her legs folded up. The forest stretched all around her. Branches spread above her head; roots delved beneath her feet.
The fortress of Doeth Palas could have been at the other end of the world. She rested her head back against the knuckled trunk and closed her eyes, breathing in the forest scents, feeling the crumbling earth under her hands. Through her eyelids, she could see the play of sunlight among the leaves, a constant flickering of brightness and shade that made her feel as if her head was filled with a dappled river of rosy light.
She breathed slowly, drawing the forest into her lungs and feeling it tingling in her limbs and sparking at her fingertips. She could hear her heart beating. She could feel her hair growing, spinning out of her glowing skull, creeping down her shoulders to touch the oak bark, needling its way into the living wood. And she felt the tree roots lifting from the ground, waving white in the air, seeking with tender rootlets. Finding her, caressing her, growing up around her until she was clothed in a gentle weave of pale, soft tendrils. Smiling, she felt the roots darken and harden. She felt buds and tiny coiling leaves sprouting. She felt the leaves envelop her. She felt the warm trunk swell out to pull her in. She felt ivy twining through her hair.
…brush back the ivy from your dark locks glowering…
She felt herself dissolving.
Branwen?
“Geraint?”
Wake up, you mooncalf! You have work to do!
“What work?”
I thought you might want to come hunting with me.
She smiled. “You can come hunting with me!”
Caw!
“Geraint?”
Caw! Caw!
Her eyes opened. The falcon was perched on a low branch, staring down at her through the leaves. She got to her feet, surprised that the old oak let go of her so easily. She had almost expected to fight against sucking roots and a restraining cloak of leaves.
The forest seemed different, somehow. The colors were deeper and richer, and the scents were stronger. The air burned fierce and wild in her body. The ground was seething with life under her feet. Even the dappled sunlight seemed brighter as it shot arrows of gold down through the canopy of shimmering leaves.
She walked under the falcon’s branch and looked up into the bird’s glittering black eyes. It stared back at her until she had to blink and look away.
The falcon launched itself from the branch and glided on still wings through the thick, golden air. It came to rest on another branch and turned to look back at Branwen.
Caw!
She followed the bird. As she drew close, it took to the air again. On and on it led her, deeper and deeper into the forest until, in a shallow dell filled with ferns, it vanished.
She stared around, waist deep in a sea of ferns. The silence hummed in her ears.
“Where are you?”
She felt light-headed. The trees leaped like vivid green flames all around her. The sky burned like an oven.
A burst of noise and movement near her feet brought her out of her trance.
A small wild boar squealed as it went plowing through the ferns, its head lowered, its sturdy legs kicking up the soil.
Branwen gave chase, pulling her slingshot out of her belt and feeling for her pouch of stones. The boar came out of the ferns and disappeared into the trees. Branwen grinned, taken over by the thrill of the hunt. The small creature was making such a racket that she had no trouble in tracking it as it zigzagged its way through the trees. Without breaking her stride, she fitted a stone into her slingshot.
She was almost upon the beast now. She could hear its rasping breath, see the bunched muscles of its rump, its back legs kicking as it dived under a hawthorn bush.
Branwen came to a skidding halt. The bush was armored with spikes and thorns, its twisted branches old and tangled. She did not want to risk being scratched; hawthorn scratches could fester and cause fever. She dropped to the ground, sitting on her heels, waiting for the telltale squealing of the boar as it darted from cover.
The boar was strangely silent.
She bent over and peered under the thicket of branches. There was no sign of the boar. “Blood of Annwn!” she gasped. “I’ve lost it. But how…?”
A brown blur burst from the heart of the bush, almost knocking her over as it took to the air. A full-grown grouse. It swerved, wings wo
rking hard as it flapped away through the forest.
Branwen scrambled to her feet and hurtled after it. The boar seemed to have disappeared, but this plump grouse would be hers. She crashed through the trees, the brown grouse always just on the very edge of sight. She felt exhilarated and tireless, leaping over fallen logs, ducking under the hanging branches, pushing leaves aside with both hands as she ran.
At last the bird broke cover, and Branwen burst into open air and a well of hot sunlight. Oaks hemmed the circular glade. Lush grasses and reeds swayed in the breeze; and in the very center lay a pool of still water, silvered by the sun.
The bird had come to earth in a clump of reeds close to the pool. Branwen could just make out its shape through the thick stems. She stood quite still, watching it. Wings fluttered occasionally. The bird was exhausted.
Branwen moved slowly forward, her slingshot ready. But the reeds were too dense for her to get a clear shot. She needed to be closer.
Creep. Stop. A step. Stop. Almost on top of the creature now. One foot forward. Hardly breathing. Shift the weight. Eyes on the brown shape. Almost close enough to reach down and pluck the bird out of the reeds.
No need for the slingshot. She tucked it into her belt.
One more step.
The grouse took to the air in a blizzard of brown feathers. Caught off guard, Branwen lunged, reaching out with both arms. She caught the bird between her hands; but as she stepped forward she felt the ground vanish under her feet, and she fell headlong into the pool, her hands still gripping the bird as the water closed over her head.
22
BRANWEN’S EYES WERE filled with bubbles, and her ears rang with the churn and surge of the water. She was startled by the fall into the pool, but unafraid. The water was warm and clear—so clear that she could see the weeds waving and billowing beneath her like a secret forest. Bright fish sped away from her like sinuous jewelry, red and yellow and blue and silver, flashing in the spears of golden sunlight that cut through the water.
She still had the bird in her hands—except that it no longer felt like a bird. It felt like a fish.
It was a fish.
She realized this with a curious lack of surprise. But she knew she was not dreaming. She had never felt more widely awake.
The giant salmon writhed and struggled in her grip, thrashing its tail and straining to get free. She managed to keep a hold on it despite the desperate strength in its long, silver body. She pulled the fish toward her, kicking out with her legs to try and push herself to the surface. But the salmon was larger than she had thought. Her hands couldn’t keep a grip on it. She had to wrap her arms around it and hold it to her chest as it fought against her.
Even then she could hardly cling on as it thrashed in her arms, the huge head lashing under her chin, the muscular tail flogging her legs.
How had it become so huge?
Her chest began to hurt, as if an iron band was being tightened around her ribs. She needed air.
Let go of the fish. That’s the only way.
Never! It’s mine!
Then you’ll drown.
She was turned over and over in the water as the salmon battled to get free—but still she wouldn’t release it. A darkness closed in on her. The pain crushed her chest. A piercing voice howled in her head.
Her foot struck something solid, and she pushed hard against it, her head spinning.
She burst into the air, gasping and coughing, the salmon still in her arms. She kicked for the shore and squirmed onto dry land. She rolled onto her back, digging her heels into the soft earth, pushing herself away from the marshy edge of the pool.
She lay there, gulping in breath, her eyes closed against the sun, the salmon gripped between her hands.
Smaller than she had imagined.
Much smaller.
She managed to get onto her knees.
The salmon lay quite still in her hands, its sleek body no longer than her forearm. She looked into its eye, and with a gasp of shock she threw it into the reeds.
The eye that had stared back at her had been as black and bright and knowing as the falcon’s eye.
“You have won your prize,” said a voice. “Kill your quarry and quit this place.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and musical.
Branwen sat up, staring around, unsure of the direction from which the voice had come. The sun dazzled her, and she could see no one in the glade. She looked again at the salmon. Its tail twitched feebly, its mouth gaping as its life ebbed away.
She couldn’t let it die. It had fought too well to gasp out its life like this. She slipped her hands under it and lifted it carefully out of the reeds. She turned and sank her arms into the water. The salmon came alive again in her hands, darting away from her. She saw its silvery shape for a moment, gliding through the water; then it was gone.
“Child, you have passed the test,” said the voice. “You have come at last. Why did you resist my calling you for so long?”
Branwen stood up. Was she imagining things? There was no one there.
Wait!
A white shape through the trees.
As Branwen watched, a tall, white horse moved smoothly into the clearing. Seated on its back was a woman dressed all in silver. Horse and rider seemed to shimmer like the midsummer sun on a hot stone, and beneath them moved a shadow as white as snow.
At first the woman’s shape was so bright that Branwen had to shield her eyes. But then the brightness faded a little, and Branwen found she could bear to look.
She had seen the woman and her horse before—carved into the white stone that she had prized from the rampart of Doeth Palas.
Oh, but she was beautiful! So beautiful!
The woman’s hair was like a fall of pure white water, cascading down past her shoulders and foaming about her waist. The slender face was pale as milk, the wide forehead circled by a band of white diamonds. Her wide eyes were terrible and compelling, the irises ice blue, the pupils like midsummer mist. White eyebrows swept upward, and her nose was hooked like the beak of an eagle. Her lips were full and bloodlessly white. She was dressed in a flowing white gown that sparkled like sunlight on water.
One slim hand held the reins of the horse. The reins and the bridle and all the trappings of the horse were threaded with white jewels that sparkled like droplets of ice, and more jewels hung between its eyes. Its coat was as white as frost under moonlight.
The woman’s other hand was raised—and Branwen’s falcon was perched upon her wrist.
“Who are you?” Branwen whispered.
“I have many names,” said the woman, and something in her voice made Branwen think of water rippling over stones. “But for you I am Rhiannon of the Spring. And my falcon, you already have met. His name is Fain.”
Branwen let out a breath, fear clutching her heart as the words of the bard came back to her.
I sing of Rhiannon of the Spring, the ageless water goddess, earth mother, storm-calmer…
“You are a Shining One.”
“I am.”
“Are you real?”
“I am as real as a racing river, as real as the pounding sea, as real as a falling dewdrop. Come to me, child; do not be afraid.” Rhiannon smiled. “Embrace your destiny.”
Branwen stepped forward, her eyes grown used to the brilliance but her mind still dazzled. “What do you want of me?”
“I have waited long for you, warrior-child. All of Brython will be your home, and you will gather to you a band of warriors who shall keep the enemy at bay for many long years.”
“No! You’re wrong. I’m not a warrior.”
“You can be a warrior, if you choose to be,” Rhiannon said, her eyes shining. The white horse snorted and pawed the ground.
“Not me!”
“If you turn from me, child, the enemy will sweep over you like a black tide. There is a festering canker at the heart of this land.”
“But you don’t understand,” Branwen protested. “I’m no good! I can’t
do those things. You have to pick someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Rhiannon said. “You are the child of Alis ap Owain and Griffith ap Wynn. You are the one who will save this land. You are the Sword of Destiny. The Bright Blade! The Emerald Flame of your people!”
“No!” Branwen shouted. “It isn’t I you need. It was my brother, the other child of my parents. Geraint was the fighter—but he’s dead. He’s the one you mean, but it’s too late now—too late!”
“No, child, it is you,” Rhiannon said, her voice rippling. “You have passed the test of the triple hunt. You have chased flesh, fowl, and fish but spilled no blood.”
The triple hunt!
Child of the Spring
Child of the Wood
Chase flesh, fowl, fish
But spill no blood
Branwen felt as if iron clamps were tightening around her head. Was she the child in the ancient rhyme? She couldn’t be.
She felt the weight of Brython pressing in all around her—the mountains, the forests, the rivers and plains, the fields and hills and dales bearing down on her, crushing her. She felt as if all the animals had turned, startled in forest and field, their eyes on her; as if the birds that wheeled in the air were looking down at her. And the people—the ancient people, the stone-movers, the earth-heapers—all turned toward her through the vastness of time. All people, all animals, all of Brython, centered on her—on the smallness of her in this place and at this moment.
How could they all be so wrong?
“You are the one,” Rhiannon said. “That is why I showed myself to the Saxon horseman in Bevan’s clearing and filled his heart with dread. That is why his ax was stayed, why his horse shied away. That is why you were not killed that day.”
“It was you!” Branwen gasped. “Behind me in the trees when Geraint was killed. The Saxon horseman saw you!”
“He did.”
“You saved me.”
“Your destiny saved you, child.”
A terrible anger blazed through Branwen. “Why didn’t you save Geraint?” she shouted. “If you saved me, why didn’t you save him?”